ONE
At dawn
in late September
I sit on the deck
facing the fog
that engulfs Lake Findley,
close my eyes,
finger my beads,
and repeat slowly,
Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus.
Only the silent fog.
Nothing but silent fog.
Sanctus. Sanctus. Sanctus.
My eyes open.
The sun
has sliced a path
to the small island,
just beyond the shore.
A blue heron stares back.
Is this not a miracle?
in late September
I sit on the deck
facing the fog
that engulfs Lake Findley,
close my eyes,
finger my beads,
and repeat slowly,
Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus.
Only the silent fog.
Nothing but silent fog.
Sanctus. Sanctus. Sanctus.
My eyes open.
The sun
has sliced a path
to the small island,
just beyond the shore.
A blue heron stares back.
Is this not a miracle?
From The Blue Heron and Thirty-Seven other Miracles by Mary Lou Kownacki, OSB
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